


Languid Shadows

by Mysdrym



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Drama, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysdrym/pseuds/Mysdrym
Summary: Renathal finds himself struggling with the weight of his sire's betrayal, the need to unify Revendreth, and the growing feelings for the mortal who has shown up to aid his cause.
Relationships: Renathal (Warcraft)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 40





	1. In the Maw

Renathal shifted his weight from one foot to the other and wished for the nth time that he had room enough to sit. He had never had a problem with standing or walking about for hours or even days back in Revendreth, but here, in the Maw, everything was different.

In Revendreth, he had been a figure of authority for almost as long as he had existed. He had been important. With a simple look, he had been able send venthyr scurrying, souls cringing, or a lover blushing. A choice word had inspired his brethren to work harder, or reconsider, or even raise arms against their master.

He had been a prince. The Dark Prince, as made by his sire, to help keep Revendreth running, to help ensure the souls who could be atoned were, and to ensure there was anima enough for all the realms.

Here, none of that mattered.

The very air leeched at his person, weakening him with every passing second. In enough time, he would be unmade entirely, though he shuddered inwardly at the thought of just how long that would take.

Was that why he hadn’t been taken to the tower when the others had? So that his unmaking would be as painfully slow as possible, as he stood there, unable to find even the slightest comfort, knowing that the ones he had led in his endeavor were being tormented and stripped of everything that made them who they were.

Tenaval, Devahia, and the Curator had been cast down first. His once beloved sire had made him watch them fall into the Maw, into eternal damnation, whispering in Renathal’s ear that it was his fault they would suffer unimaginable torment.

And then he had been sent to join them.

He had put up a good fight, if it could be called that, trying to get to them and keep them safe. Trying to right the wrong he had caused.

But without his armor, without his weapons, without his _medallion_ , he had been overwhelmed and had been forced to watch, again, as they were dragged away, out of his reach.

Renathal kicked at the bottom of his cage, more for the movement than anything else.

He’d been there for…it was impossible to tell how long.

Since before the mortals came from that strange blue patch of sky in the distance.

Azeroth.

One of the mortals had found their way to his cage while trying to hide from the jailer’s minions. Renathal had offered help if he could be released, but the creature had perished trying to get the key. That or just decided he wasn’t worth it.

Honestly, he couldn’t blame him if it was the latter. After all, how would that creature have known who to trust in this miserable place?

Renathal started to turn in his cage, but stopped himself. He already knew the landscape by heart, and the idea that there might be a new patrol or sentry somewhere in the distance wasn’t nearly interesting enough to be worth the waste of energy.

A soul let out an agonizing wail in the distance, and he winced on their behalf.

There was no point to this torture.

In Revendreth, souls were confined and hunted and harvested for a greater purpose. Here, the things that were done to these poor souls was just for the sake of causing pain. There were no lessons to be learned, not betterment to be had.

In fact, he’d seen a few souls twist into hateful shades, unable to withstand the torment any longer.

In the beginning he’d seen it happen to over a dozen, in quick succession.

Now, however, there was a change in the air.

Perhaps the Maw simply went through cycles, but if the increased viciousness of some of the mawsworn were any indication, something was definitely amiss. Creatures weren’t giving up on their hope quite as quickly as they were supposed to.

At least, he’d heard that whispered between guards some time ago. They hadn’t known that he could hear them from so far away. That, or they’d been trying to torment him with that fickle hope.

He didn’t know if it was real or not, but he did know the rumor that seemed to be the culprit.

A mortal had escaped the Maw.

Earlier, shortly after the mortals had first appeared, he _had_ felt a change in the air, for that precious moment. It was as though the whole Maw shuddered, not knowing what to do once someone actually breeched its edges.

He’d _had_ hope for a little while, until he’d felt the Maw shudder a second time and realized that this wasn’t some miraculous escape happening, but something else.

Perhaps another realm was trying to attack.

Doubtful, but worth the wonder. After all, all he’d been left with was time to think.

To think about how he’d been so stupid, using his damned medallion, about every mistake he’d made that his master had watched him make, waiting for him to go ‘too far’ to finally lash out. To think about the drought his people suffered and how it would only get worse, with his sire hoarding the anima as he was.

To think about how he should have been able to get out of this damned cage.

In another time, Renathal could have picked the lock himself, but he had let himself fall out of practice.

Another failure.

He was tempted to lash out at his cage in frustration, but restrained himself.

The bars were a sadistic joke. They looked, at a glance, wide enough to slip through sideways, but they twisted and changed when he tried, spiking out and inward to catch flesh that tried to get through. If he leaned on the bars for too long, they did the same, and so instead he stood, in the middle of that miserable cage, tired and aching and drained.

How he wished he could do anything different. Plan an escape, figure out how to save his allies, simply reason with his sire to bring Revendreth back to its true purpose.

The way his Master had acted when he’d led the rebellion…it had been as though he thought Renathal was deciding to go against him on a whim. It was as though he was oblivious to the times, again and again, that Renathal had come to him, noting changes in venthyr behavior or in the way their very realm seemed to function, only to be dismissed and sent off on other tasks that had him chasing his tail instead.

When Renathal had realized that his Master was complicit in the fall of their realm, it had been as though someone had flung him into the void. Everything he knew, every surety in his life, had been undone.

How could his creator turn his back on his creations? How could he starve them and let the souls be abused and overburdened? How could his Master turn his back on him?

Perhaps it had been out of selfishness that he had begun to think about how to get Revendreth back to its true purpose, but after he had spoken with the Curator, he had known that something was amiss and—far worse—that they could not rely on the pillar of their world.

He had fought with himself, internally, for far too long. If Sire Denathrius had been a venthyr, his task would have been clear. He would have rooted out the upstart and given him to the Master to decide his fate. A lesser offense he would have handled himself, but something this monumental…

But there was no one he could turn the Master over to.

No one except himself.

He was the Master’s right hand. If there was anyone who could right what was being done, it would have to be him.

Or so he’d thought.

The first opinion outside his own that he’d sought had been his soulbind’s. Draven’s. Sire Denathrius had allowed them to soulbind eons ago, mostly out of a morbid curiosity to see if stoneborn could. Afterward, the Master had seemingly forgotten about their bond.

Draven had known that Renathal was worrying about something grave, and had been relieved to be pulled into his full confidence about what was happening. Draven had been as bothered by the notion that their Master was corrupted as Renathal. He had been the one to suggest reaching out to others for more opinions.

The Stonewright and Fearstalker were such critical creatures that Renathal had gone to the Curator first.

He had laid out everything he knew and then waited for her response. Despite knowing that he was right, he had wanted her to dismiss him, to tell him that he was being foolish and that there was nothing wrong other than his view of things.

Instead, her shoulders had slumped, and she had nodded. “I know.” The Curator had sat there a moment, quietly, before adding, “The Stonewright knows, too, but she will not move against the Master. She insists we trust whatever his plan is.”

Renathal had been a bit surprised that she hadn’t come to him with her suspicions, but then…he was their Master’s favorite. Perhaps those who had noticed the changes had assumed he would support the Master as the Stonewright did. Perhaps they had thought him involved.

The more he had talked to the Curator and the Accuser, the more his world had crumbled, and the more he had been sure of himself.

It had been so obvious that they needed to dethrone their sire.

So obvious. Just as the Master being able to watch their actions through the medallions should have been _so_ obvious.

Renathal’s head hung forward as he considered his stupidity. If he had just told the Curator to dismiss it, perhaps she would be safe now, instead of…wherever they’d taken her. The thought to look for her almost made him turn, but he stopped himself. She was out of sight, out of reach, out of luck.

He tried not to think of what they were doing to her, tried not to wonder if her torment echoed his own.

Occasionally, illusions played out around him, sick and twisted things. The first had been the Curator coming to free him. He had wept to see her alright.

She had opened the cage and held out her hand and when he reached for it, the bars had snared his arm as she disappeared.

The next time had been Sire Denathrius, telling him it was all a misunderstanding and that things would be fine. He’d found a cure for the drought and all was well. Renathal had wanted so much to believe that, but his sire’s essence had not felt…right, and he’d known it was a farce. The Maw could not impersonate a god, it seemed.

The illusions had stuck to others after that. The Curator, Draven, Vrednic, Chelra, The Accuser, even the Stonewright once.

Each one had been a stab in the heart. Even knowing they weren’t real—he was better at recognizing the ruse, or so he liked to think—it reminded him that he didn’t know what had become of them.

It reminded him that he was helpless and alone.

Even as he dared to lean against the bars for a few precious seconds, considering that it was about time for another of those hateful illusions to sweep through, a familiar voice called out.

“My prince! Are you hurt?”

Vorpalia.

Renathal was tempted to just ignore the illusion, to focus on something else. However, something about the voice and the very essence that came from that direction made him look. His sword floated quickly up to his cage.

This time, he hesitated. The other illusions had been different, _less_ somehow. There hadn’t been the proper weight to the mimicked one’s soul, as there should have been.

But Vorpalia felt _real_.

Another trick, no doubt.

“You’ve been thrown to the maw, too?” he asked, despite himself.

“We’ve come to rescue you!”

Renathal frowned, looking past his blade for signs of others. However, while he’d expected nearly anyone at this point—Draven would have been the most likely pairing with Vorpalia, or Chelra—instead he saw a small creature hurrying up to his cage.

Their clothes were black, their hood tugged down to hide their face in shadows, and their frame was slight.

More than that, though, he could tell that this creature was different from the ones around him.

They were _mortal_.

Thoughts of the fabled Maw Walker came to mind, and he wondered if the Maw was already so desperate to trick him that it had resorted to this.

The eons he was to spend here were going to be dull indeed if the Maw was already stretching this far.

There was a faint glimmer of blue in the shadows obscuring the creature’s face where the eyes would have been, and he decided to humor the illusion, telling it where to go to get the key to his cage. No doubt they would present it, miraculously already having it.

As he waited, the creature instead turned to scan their surroundings, letting out a low curse.

Was that a lady’s voice?

Curious.

As they shifted and then started off in the direction he’d sent them in, Vorpalia hesitated.

“I’d imagine they will need help, no?” Renathal said, desperate to be free of the farce. “I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well.”

That hesitation lingered a second longer before Vorpalia was zipping off after the small mortal.

He watched them, waiting for the illusion to disperse.

But they did not.

Instead, they carved a way through the mawsworn, Vorpalia’s steel glinting in the eerie light and shadows bending to the mortal’s will.

When they disappeared from sight, it was because they had rounded a corner, and foolish as it was, Renathal found himself waiting with baited breath—as the saying went.

The passage of time had never been something he’d been particularly good at keeping track of, but he was certain that it had ground to an absolute halt as he stood there, aches forgotten, his doubts nothing but a tiny pinprick in the back of his mind.

It could have been seconds or an eternity before they finally reemerged, sprinting through the cleared area. Vorpalia was more singularly focused, making a beeline back to him, while the mortal kept looking around, including up. His blade did have to turn around once to help when two patrols converged on the mortal, but aside from that, their return was a quick one.

He barely knew what to do when they were there before him again.

None of the other illusions had lasted this long, had they?

The doubt in his mind begged him not to be a fool, but hope had already taken root, and he couldn’t bring himself to dismiss it entirely.

He found himself explaining how he’d once been good with locks as the mortal focused on freeing him.

Of course it couldn’t be a simple turn. They—she, if the voice was any indication—had to twist the key to get it into the right position and as she did, another patrol came up behind her.

With a louder curse than the last one, she whirled around and braced for a blow, only to have Vorpalia behead their foe with one fell swoop.

“Don’t worry about them,” Vorpalia ordered, with the confidence only an animate weapon could have. “I will keep them at bay. Free Prince Renathal!”

For all the bluster, there were no other enemies in the vicinity when the declaration was made. Renathal couldn’t help a small smile at that.

Vorpalia dispatched two other mawsworn while the Maw Walker fiddled with the lock before it finally came undone.

She pulled on the door, and it swung open.

Though she held her hand out to him, he didn’t move. If this wasn’t real, it was the best illusion so far, and he didn’t want to see Vorpalia fade away just yet.

Odd how he’d gone from wanting it gone quickly to now wishing to draw it out. Perhaps he was just dreading the monotony of standing around waiting for the next one.

The Maw Walker, it turned out, was not one for patience.

She grabbed one of his hands and pulled him forward.

Even through the gloves she wore, he could feel heat emanating from her.

She was _real_.

Which meant Vorpalia was real.

And the cage was _really_ open.

He eagerly sought to stride forward, a ‘thank you’ on the tip of his tongue, only to have his body fail him. His limbs had been stationary too long, and rather than a swift, elegant exit, he toppled over onto the mortal, who barely managed to keep the both of them up. She only came up to about the middle of his chest, and he could feel the strain in her arms as she helped him hobble over to a hiding spot formed by a hideous rock formation nearby.

When they were as out of sight as they could be, she helped him sit down and knelt at his side.

“We must get him out of the Maw!” Vorpalia demanded.

“The waystone is a long way off,” that pleasant mortal voice replied, tone sharp. “I can’t carry him.”

“I just need a moment,” he assured them both. He reached down to massage one of his thighs, getting the feeling going back in it.

This was _real_.

Even as he kept telling himself so, he wasn’t sure that he could actually believe it. It seemed too miraculous.

Outside of the cage, he already felt better, as though those bars had been what leeched his essence, and not the entire damned realm.

“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” Vorpalia was snapping, moving back and forth in front of the opening to make certain nothing was on its way.

Gaze moving back to the mortal, Renathal saw that she had a spellbook in her lap that she was flipping through quickly. She caught him watching her as she tucked some loose, dark red hair under her hood, and hesitated. “Most of my mending is light based.” He must have grimaced at the word, because she looked back down, flipping a few pages back and forth. “I was working on some spells that wouldn’t hurt with…” She flipped a few more pages and then straightened up. “I apologize for any discomfort.”

She read and reread the spell before placing her hand against his chest, over one of the dozens of cuts that the bars had inflicted during his stay.

At first, he felt a warning prickle of light, but as she whispered, it shifted to something not entirely comfortable, but not painful either.

It washed through him, cold and foreign.

As much as he didn’t care for the experience, he had to admit that he felt better when it finally ebbed. His minor cuts were gone, and he felt stronger than he had in…

Well, he felt stronger than he had in a while.

There was still a bit of stiffness in his limbs when he rose to his feet, but a quick conjure brought anima flowing to his fingertips, and that elicited a triumphant laugh from Vorpalia.

“How do we get to that waystone?”

Before the mortal could answer, Renathal snapped out of the wonder of what was happening, realizing abruptly that this would be no triumph at all if he returned home alone. “We must free my allies.”

There was a pause.

It was so brief, but it clutched at his core never-the-less. The Maw Walker’s body was tense, as though ready to argue.

Instead, she just peered up at him. “Where are they?”

…-…

Tenaval was the first one they found.

He was chained to the wall, kicking at the mawrats that were gathering and waiting for him to lose just enough strength to start feasting.

His chains came apart easily compared to Renathal’s cage. Vorpalia shattered them with a few swift strikes and the Maw Walker and Renathal helped to get the cuffs off.

The Maw Walker relied on her spellbook again when she healed Tenaval, and Renathal could see the discomfort cross his fellow venthyr’s face at the odd feel of it.

“Where are the others?”

“Further in, of course,” Tenaval replied, standing up straight and proud, as though a simple thing could repair the damage that had been done to him. He combed his fingers through his hair and fixed it as they started down the hall. “From what I could understand, they had plans for the Curator. I tried to—”

His voice cracked, and he deflated a little, gaze downward.

Renathal put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find her.”

The four of them continued through the winding halls, listening to the clink of armor in the distance and the shifting of the halls around them.

It would be impossible to get out the way they’d come.

That would be something to worry about after they found Devahia and the Curator. For now, he was content to get lost in the chaos of battle, his mind able to focus on something that didn’t leave him wallowing in sorrow and doubt.

Devahia was bound and hanging over a vat of fire when they found her. Even as they watched, the chains dropped a little, and she struggled to pull her feet up and away from the flames that licked at her toes.

The emptiness of the room proved a trap, and no sooner had they entered, trying to locate the end of the chains and a way to get the dark enchantress down, they were beset from all sides.

Renathal was stronger every second that he was out of the cage and cast and clawed his way through the ranks, feeling the occasional unsettling flow of the Maw Walker’s magic upon him when he took a blow.

He managed to take a blade from one of his enemies just as Devahia shouted, “Behind you!”

Whirling, he found that she had been talking to the Maw Walker, not him. The mortal tried to move in time, but a behemoth of a creature slammed into her and sent her flying into the wall. Renathal placed himself between the Maw Walker and the creature, assuring her time to recover while the rest of them took the creature down.

When it fell, it lunged for Tenaval, missed, and slammed into the far wall before finally growing still.

Renathal whirled to find the Maw Walker already on her feet, though she was leaning heavily against the wall. Magic left her fingertips, and Tenaval grunted with displeasure.

As he reached her, she finally turned her magic on herself.

Her hood had fallen back, and he recognized her now as an elf of some kind. Azerothian, like the creature he’d seen before. Her hair was dark, almost the color of pooled anima, and her eyes shown a pale blue. Her ears stuck up straight, long, and delicate.

She was wiping a bit of anima from her mouth—no. Not anima. Mortals had something else, didn’t they? What was it called, again?

When she realized she had his full attention, she simply waved him off. “I’m fine.”

Renathal was eyeing her, not sure if he should accept her dismissal or not, when Tenaval let out a sharp cry for help.

He turned to find Tenaval was clinging to a chain, tugging it back with all his might. It only took a second to realize that the behemoth had damaged the restraints holding Devahia above the flames in its final act. Only one chain remained intact, and she clung to it as best she could, trying to pull herself up higher. Her knees were curled up as best she could, the fire singing her skirts.

Renathal darted over to help with the chain.

Even as he and Tenaval pulled Devahia a few feet higher up, the chain groaned. It wasn’t going to hold much longer.

The Maw Walker stopped a few paces from them, ignoring Tenaval’s call to help. She held out a hand and then looked up at Devahia. “I can get you down, but it’s going to hurt.”

“It already hurts,” Devahia said, trying to sound calm. She made a motion for the Maw Walker to do what she needed to.

The mortal, in turn, looked at Renathal. “You two need to let go.” As Tenaval protested, she frowned. “It could take her hand off if the chain is taunt.”

It only took a word from Renathal to get Tenaval to agree. The trust the venthyr had in his eyes when he looked at Renathal made him wonder what he had actually done to deserve it. After all, he was the reason they were in this mess.

He pushed the thought from his mind, holding himself confidently so that the other venthyr would be more at ease.

Vorpalia counted for them.

On three, they released the chain.

Devahia dropped for less than a second before tendrils of light reached out, gripped her, and yanked her to the Maw Walker. In a second, she collapsed into a heap on the ground, struggling to maintain some level of decorum in spite of the pain lancing through her.

Renathal and Tenaval got to work on removing what was left of her chains as the Maw Walker healed her.

“Can you walk?”

“Of course,” Devahia replied. Even so, she sat a moment longer, looking back at the fire she’d been dangled over, almost as though in disbelief that she’d survived it. “I must say I shall be glad to be rid of this place.”

Tenaval laughed and helped her to her feet, wrapping her in a tight hug. When he let her go, he made certain she really could stand on her own before turning expectantly to Renathal.

Even with all that was happening, all that was done to them, they looked to him.

That doubt he’d been so good at ignoring during their fighting was coming back with a vengeance. Rather than let it show, he stood a little taller and gave his allies a confident nod. “Now then, one more and we can go back to Revendreth.”

The Maw Walker tucked her ears into her hood and pulled it down over her face as she headed forward, pausing only at the edge of the room to wait for the others.

They’d carved their way through a significant number of the Jailer’s army—at least it felt like that—when the Maw Walker abruptly perked up while peering down a hall. She motioned for them to follow and darted down it, all but leaving them behind.

She was lucky the halls didn’t shift and separate them.

As Renathal and the others caught up, she was already attacking chains with her shadow magic. While it was not the Curator, Renathal did recognize the creature.

It was the mortal he’d asked to free him, so long ago.

So this was what had become of his would be hero.

He hastily helped with the chains, catching the man and laying him down. While he was still small compared to a venthyr, he was larger than the Maw Walker, and wearing heavy plate armor. As he groaned, the Maw Walker knelt beside him. Her healing spells were different this time. Neither light nor whatever she’d used on Renathal. Shadows danced across the other mortal, and his eyes snapped open.

The glowed a cold blue, different from the Maw Walker’s. He started to bring his hands up as though to fight, but stopped when he saw Renathal. “You.”

“Hello again,” Renathal offered, brow arched.

“You know each other?” the Maw Walker asked.

As the man turned to look at her, his eyes widened. “Dragonlily?” When she nodded, he let out a laugh. “Is it true then? You _did_ get out?”

“I did,” she replied, pausing to heal him again. “And now I’m back. Are any of the others here?”

“I don’t know,” the man replied. He hesitated a moment and then pulled himself up. “Shadow got taken down first. Blood and Leafless were still fighting, back to back when I fell, and Kisses…I lost sight of her in the fighting. She’s too damned small.”

“Fuck,” the Maw Walker murmured. She paused and then nodded to the rest of them. “This is Shawn. We came to the Maw together.” She glanced at him. “I forget, do you tank?”

“Do you heal?”

“I do today,” the Maw Walker muttered, and it occurred to Renathal for the first time that the reason her healing spells were so awkward was because they weren’t something she did regularly.

“Then I guess I can today, too,” Shawn replied, giving them a grin. “Any weapons lying around, or am I expected to just claw faces off?”

Just as the mortal started eyeing Vorpalia, Renathal offered him the blade he’d picked up. “I can find another.”

Shawn took it and weighed it in his hands before nodding. “This’ll do.”

It was fascinating watching the mortals interact. Neither seemed overly friendly, and yet they talked with a familiarity that made them far more than acquaintances.

Shawn spoke like a military man, asking for updates on what was going on in the world beyond. The Maw Walker—Dragonlily, he called her, though Renathal couldn’t help but think of her by the first title—answered his questions in a quiet, almost emotionless voice.

“Things are far worse than we’d hoped.”

“They always are.”

The Maw Walker nodded. “All the afterlives I’ve been to are embroiled in some sort of conflict, none are working as intended, and we are nowhere near finding a way to restore the veil.”

Shawn nodded, thoughtful. “So just another Tuesday, hmm?”

“More or less.”

Tenaval was the one to interject. “Everything can’t be that dire, surely.”

The Maw Walker paused to glance back at him, those glowing blue eyes just barely visible in the shadows under her hood. “The Ascended are being attacked from within and without. The Primus is gone, and the Maldraxxi are doing a poor job of containing their traitors. Ardenweald is withering, and I think you’re aware of Sire Denathrius’ machinations.”

“Any good news?” Shawn asked, seemingly unconcerned with being left out of Revendreth’s plight.

Without being able to see her face, Renathal could feel the annoyance emanating from the smaller mortal.

“I got High Lord Mograine and his father out of the Maw.”

“His father was here?”

“His father is a Maldraxxi baron.”

“And the Maldraxxi are?”

“Basically the Scourge, except they’re supposed to be noble.”

Shawn’s mouth formed a thin line. “Hmm. And you said they’re leaderless and succumbing to infighting?”

The Maw Walker nodded. “And harvesting Valkyr-like beings from other realms to carve up and make new monstrosities with.”

“And they’re ‘noble’?”

Despite the idle curiosity to see what outsiders thought of the Shadowlands, Renathal found himself defending his fellow realm. “The Maldraxxi are supposed to defend the Shadowlands from outside threats. It is a very noble calling.”

“They make Forsaken abominations look tame,” the Maw Walker said, ignoring Renathal’s comment.

Shawn’s grimace heralded the end of the conversation for a while.

After fighting their way through a few more halls, they paused when they came to a long bridge. Nothingness yawned out beneath them, and overhead they could see the occasional mawsworn flying. That blue patch of sky was closer.

Both mortals seemed captivated by it for a moment before Shawn broke the silence. “How do you think they’re fairing back home?”

“The same as when we left, I’d imagine.” The Maw Walker murmured. When she noticed the curious looks from Renathal and the others, she motioned toward the sky. “They bring back the worst souls and our forces slay them and send them back to the Shadowlands. Then the mawsworn bring them back again before the day is out.”

“Their forces stay the same, while ours slowly dwindle,” Shawn murmured.

So the mortals were facing a losing fight of their own.

Renathal had wondered why the living had infiltrated the lands of the dead. He hadn’t given it nearly as much thought as his own shortcomings, but the idea that this whole mess was actively spilling out of the Shadowlands and into realities beyond was more than a little disheartening.

As they finally decided to cross the bridge, hoping to draw as little attention from overhead as possible, Renathal wondered how many mortals had come through, and how few were left.

Rather than ask, he focused instead on the fighting and his own goals. They would find the Curator, and they would return to Revendreth. He would see it done.

He would.


	2. Against the Odds

Pain lanced through Liila Dragonlily’s body as she slowly became aware again. Her strength failed her when she attempted to open her eyes, and so instead she lay where she was, trying to remember what had happened.

Memories bubbled up over one another, different faces that had haunted her nightmares over the years appearing and fading out. With each one, fear curled in her that she had not truly escaped them, that the pain she felt now was a result of their wickedness.

However, her mind was not nearly so scattered that her fears could take root, and as the images of undead and demons gave way, she remembered that she had been in the Maw. Hollow suits of armor marched toward her, and her eyelids fluttered, almost ready to obey her.

As she tensed at their approach, another memory surged forward, and she was watching long, flowing white hair flutter as its owner darted past her to meet the oncoming enemies. Strong arms, large clawed hands, a handsome physique stood between her and their enemies, and healing spells wove around her fingertips.

The figure looked back at her, his face severe angles, dark circles surrounding glowing red eyes, and full lips that hid wicked fangs.

There was something about him…

She knew him. At least briefly.

More memories fell into place. She could remember the venthyr and Shawn, fighting to find and save all of them. They had been in the tower of the damned for what could have been ages before they had finally found the last of the missing venthyr—her name had simply been the Curator.

The Curator had been alone in a room, using her own anima to madly scribble on any surface she could reach. As she wrote, the words behind her slowly faded out, the tower undoing all the work she was so desperate to chronicle.

Among the scribblings, the words ‘Don’t forget Harriett’ were written over and over.

When Prince Renathal had reached her, she had looked at him, so completely lost, and said, “It’s eating my mind.”

Her voice had wavered, her heart as broken as the mind she was trying to save.

The other two venthyr had used their own anima to heal her before Liila could attempt any spells, actions done in desperation rather than some attempt to dismiss her.

Honestly, she’d been relieved. Her spells helped with physical ailments, not the mind.

With everyone accounted for, it was time to go. As much as Liila wanted to stay and look for the other missing death knights, they had no real way to track them. With the venthyr, they had been able to sense one another to some degree.

More importantly, Liila didn’t know how many people she could take with her out of the Maw at a time. There were six with her now, and she didn’t want to find out she would have to make multiple trips as it was.

Once Prince Renathal had calmed the Curator, Liila started to explain about the waystone and how she could get them there and bring them to Oribos. She was fairly certain that she could find her way back to it, though they were going to have to fight through large numbers of mawsworn to get there.

And having such a large group was bound to draw more attention than they’d want.

Shawn had been grim as he readied himself for the gauntlet. Grim, but determined.

Liila had turned to head back the way they’d come in the tower, but…

They hadn’t gone to the waystone.

Her brow pinched together as the pain in her throbbed. It was ebbing, slowly.

She recalled the Curator offering an alternative way out of the Maw and then—

Liila opened her eyes.

Two faces immediately filled her vision, one with icy glowing blue eyes and the other with eerie glowing red.

Shawn grinned at her as Prince Renathal asked after her wellbeing. There was a curiosity in the prince’s expression, like he was studying something new, and couldn’t decide if what he was seeing was good or not.

When she groaned and started to sit up, Shawn took hold of one of her hands to help her. Prince Renathal mirrored the action, his large hand engulfing hers. The prince braced his other hand against her back when she was up, inspecting her with such care that she wondered if he weren’t some sort of healer himself.

Shawn looked her over and decided she was fine. “No more sleeping on the job, you hear?”

She ignored him, and instead let her gaze sweep over the dimly lit corridor they were in to see that all of their party had made it back safely. She could remember now how Shawn had been directed to hold on to Tenaval as they cast their spell, so that he could be drawn out with them, while Vorpalia had gone to her master.

Her gaze returned to Prince Renathal. He was a bit more hesitant to let her go than Shawn had been, perhaps because he knew what had been done to her, and had heard the Curator’s comment about being unmade if it was done again.

Since he seemed so keen on keeping an eye on her, she decided to return the favor with a direct stare and an arched brow.

He was a giant of a creature, standing even taller than most of the venthyr, who might as well have been giants compared to Liila. Why did everyone have to be so tall in the afterlives? Well, except for the dredgers. They were a good sort, and not just because she didn’t have to crane her neck back to see them. Every dredger she’d met thus far was polite and helpful, if not a little rough around the edges.

The venthyr, on the other hand, all seemed to house rather strong echoes of the sins they were supposed to be purging from the souls in their care, from their decadent clothes to their haughty attitudes that boasted their beliefs that they were better than those around them.

Well, all of them except for Theotar.

And the prince.

Prince Renathal still stood with the poise of one full of himself, and yet he seemed much more sincere than the others—granted, most of the others had been trying to murder Liila, so there were definitely other differences to take into consideration, as well.

Perhaps the Fearstalker would have been more amiable if she hadn’t been hunting Liila for sport.

Even as she considered that the prince still had plenty of time to be just as insufferable as the others, it occurred to her that she was missing her staff. As if on cue, Shawn held it in front of her, a bit too close. She took it, annoyed to have been so easily read, and then looked back at Prince Renathal, nodding politely to him. She almost regretted holding her staff again, otherwise she would have patted his hand to have him let her go.

He hesitated another moment before withdrawing himself. She could feel his hand behind her back, hovering just out of reach until he decided that yes, she could stand on her own.

The others were waiting on him, expectantly.

When he was satisfied that Liila was indeed alright, he turned away and led them down the stairs and back into Sinfall. Liila fell to the rear of the group so that she could rub at her shoulders and other aches without anyone fussing over her. After years of fighting, she, along with most of her friends, had come to accept that pain was just a part of life and that unless it was actively hindering oneself, there was no point in dwelling on it.

To have someone worry after her like the prince had…

She brushed the notion aside, chalking it up to guilt at having used her as a conduit. After all, nearly murdering someone wasn’t exactly the best way to repay being saved from the Maw.

Shawn was content to follow along at her side, taking in their new environment as he listened to the prince talk and reunite with other members of his rebellion. The death knight laughed when Theotar remarked on the prince’s attire—or lack thereof. He glanced at her like he might try to make lighthearted conversation, but stopped when he saw how worn-out she was.

That was when she realized her hood was down again.

Not that it mattered.

They were out of the Maw, and she wasn’t worried about being recognized anymore. There were a number of souls that she’d sent to the afterlives, and she didn’t want any in the Maw taking note of her and paying her special interest. It was bad enough that she was the great ‘Maw Walker’. If certain unsavory individuals found her, she’d be wishing the Jailer had her himself.

“You look tired,” Shawn finally murmured, leaning in so that the others wouldn’t notice.

Based on the twitch of the nearest venthyr’s ears—Tenaval if she remembered right—Shawn’s whispering was pointless.

Humans never could talk quietly.

The venthyr in question managed an ever-so-careful glance back at them just as a voice cut through the air. It was a voice Liila had very much wanted to _never_ hear again.

“Curator!”

The Accuser rushed past Prince Renathal and the others, going straight to the Curator, relief and adoration plain on her usually harsh features. Instead of what Liila had suspected to be a permanent scowl, tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she caught the Curator’s face in her hands and pulled her in for a deep, passionate kiss.

As the Accuser wrapped the Curator in a tight embrace, the latter leaned her forehead against her lover’s. “I’m fine. I will be fine.”

It was quite the change from the babbling creature that Liila had met in the Maw. Considering the turmoil the Curator had been in—was still in, in all likelihood—Liila couldn’t even blame her for using her as a conduit, painful as that had been.

Further, it gave her a most precious opportunity to sneak past the Accuser unseen.

Liila and the Accuser hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot, what with Liila following Sire Denathrius’ orders to carve a path through the Accuser’s loyal followers and all. The Accuser had also proved to have all the humor of an abandoned pet rock—a very angry, looming abandoned pet rock—which had not helped matters in the slightest.

Yes, if Liila could manage to never have to interact with the Accuser again, it would be too soon.

Shawn matched her pace as she sped up a little to put distance between herself and the reunited venthyr, before slowing down once they were around the corner.

As they caught up with the prince and his shifting entourage, Liila’s frown doubled.

The asshole who had thrown her off a cliff, General Draven, was talking to Prince Renathal.

It had figured that once the Accuser had finally bothered to say something to Liila outside of vague, ominous warnings about being a pawn, that she would turn out to be friends with the first person in the realm who had tried to kill her.

He’d never even apologized for that.

Or acknowledged it.

Granted, Liila _had_ learned that the immortal residents of the Shadowlands were quick to forget their mortal lives and just how easy it was to die. Being grabbed by the neck to be flown around or dropped seventy yards in a splintering carriage meant nothing to them.

Perhaps murder had not been the general’s intent.

It was something to mull about over a nice warm mug of tea with Theotar, perhaps before getting some much-needed sleep.

Sleep…the word almost sounded foreign in her mind.

That was another thing the immortals seemed to have forgotten about. For all their talk about dreams—waking and otherwise—she wasn’t sure if they actually needed to rest the way that mortals did, and their rush to fix all the wrongs in all their realms left _her_ sleep deprived and in a foul mood.

The tension in her shoulders and the weariness in her limbs amplified at the mere thought of a pillow.

At least, with the prince saved and everyone happy for the moment, she could finally have a moment’s rest. Maybe she could find a quiet place to sit down and catch Shawn up on some of the travesties that were taking precedence over their own and—

“We must strike quickly, before Sire Denathrius learns of my return.”

Liila had to fight the urge to just start bludgeoning everyone within her staff’s reach.

Prince Renathal was talking about lights and some other nonsense that was not registering with in her head as she stared at him, wondering if this was some sadistic joke. Most of the venthyr she’d met thus far did seem to enjoy toying with people—or just torturing them—after all.

As he kept going, the hope she clung to that this was all a ruse to make her cry died and gave way to the miserable realization that this was going to actually happen.

He honestly, _seriously_ thought storming a castle and fighting a god of death _right_ after escaping the Maw was a good idea.

What was worse, everyone simply accepted that this was the plan. There were less of them now than there had been before, by his own admission, and yet he was adamant that it was now or never.

Even if he were in tiptop health—which he wasn’t—and they had whatever army he had had before—which they didn’t—and if she and Shawn weren’t both painfully _not_ dead, there was no way that they could take on a damned death god.

They needed help.

“This is a bad idea.”

Prince Renathal stopped midsentence to look down at her, and for an instant she thought she saw his resolve waver. However, before she could list all the reasons that this was being planned poorly at best, he shook his head. “We will have the element of surprise.”

She doubted that.

“And we will use the light to all but seal the castle—”

“They can’t just come out the windows?” Shawn interrupted.

“There are very few windows in Castle Nathria,” the Accuser replied from somewhere behind them. Liila fought the urge to turn and scowl at her.

Shawn frowned. “So it’s what, basically a giant tomb?”

“More or less,” she muttered. Before she could add a ‘but’ to her statement, Prince Renathal was ordering his underlings around again, preparing for the assault.

She considered what she had at her disposal other than words that might dissuade him. Just as she was drawing a blank, something clicked into place, and she cast another heal on him. That didn’t even slow him down. She knew he had to have felt it.

And despised it.

All of the venthyr she’d come into contact with so far hated her healing.

The first few had had good reason—Lord Chamberlain had screeched at her not to cast the light on him—but she was fairly certain that her newer spells weren’t _that_ bad. However, for whatever reason, they weren’t good either.

That was something to figure out another time. And anyway, she didn’t actually want them depending on her healing. That would be a nightmare.

Prince Renathal finally got to the part of his plan that required his new friends to act and he gave directions to her and Shawn. There was a slight pause as he waited for her response, as though somehow, with two easily killable _mortals_ by his side, things would turn out better than having an _immortal_ army.

Though…neither of them exactly counted as mortal mortals, did they? Shawn was a death knight and she…

With a sigh, she lightly hit Shawn’s armor and motioned for him to follow.

She didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

And who knew? Perhaps this prince knew something she didn’t.

As she and Shawn moved up the stairs, a bit faster than her body wanted to go, he glanced over at her. “You look like death warmed over.”

“I feel like it, too.”

“You know,” Shawn said after another moment, pausing when they came to the mirror that led outside. He followed after her quick enough and matched her pace as they headed to the nearest mirror they would need to redirect. “You’re the first mortal they’ve seen, yes? Perhaps they don’t know that this…” he motioned to her, “is a tired look. You could tell them.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Liila muttered.

The amount of time it would take her to recover from her nonstop running through the Shadowlands, hopping from one afterlife to the next in search of answers and solutions to everyone else’s problems, would take weeks. If this attack was to truly be a surprise, they would definitely lose that element if they waited for her.

And anyway, the prince was no doubt considering her a tool at his disposal, like every other high-ranking ass in this reality or hers.

Liila had made too much of a name for herself in the last few years. She had been too involved in the fight against the Legion and the old gods and too many important people knew she could be relied on for the more dangerous tasks.

Now she was _the_ Maw Walker, a creature that did the impossible.

She glanced at Shawn as he helped to move their current mirror into place.

If there was any kindness in the universe, she wouldn’t be the only one who could come and go from the Maw. This was one title she _wanted_ to lose the exclusivity of. The idea of an army of mortals that could traverse the boundaries of that awful place would be a small comfort.

So long as she didn’t think about how many of them she’d know, of how many of them deserved the same peace and rest that she longed for.

When N’zoth fell, her guild, Impervious, had made a decision. Their time to fight for the Horde was over. They had fought so many wars, so many gods, so many evils, and the only thing that they had to show for it was a weariness that afflicted the soul.

She had lost good friends to the fights, and though there had always been more bodies to add to the guild, it had stopped being the same. Her guild leaders, Gorgon Hellsblood and his wife, Sham, had fallen to the Legion. Some of her oldest and dearest friends, Timmons Burlaste and Gregor Smithson, had joined the Alliance.

Their replacements had been younger, fresh faced fools who didn’t understand why Liila would freeze when she saw a fire elemental summoned or get a far off, nostalgic look in her eyes when she saw mini-reavers. They hadn’t been there for Ragnaros or Tempest Keep, and they didn’t know all the adventures and mishaps the guild had shared together.

Impervious had decided, in the end, to disband. Let others take up the charge for once. Those of them who were left wanted to find peace. They wanted a chance to actually live in the world they had fought so hard to protect.

And so they had retired.

Her best friend in all the worlds, an exiled Amani troll named Haa’aji, had settled down in Zuldazar, taking in a gaggle of orphans to help them grow into adults who didn’t need to steal to survive. He had, at one time, been the most chaotic rogue she’d ever known, and it still made her laugh to think that he had found a home being a papa to so many troubled youths.

She still visited them often enough—they were family, after all—but she had known that if she made her home with them, Haa’aji would get drawn into whatever the next conflict was, right along with her.

And cursed as she was, soul tethered to her mortal shell by death runes, she was too good a weapon for the powers that be to let live life quietly. Her curse was too _convenient_.

So of course when the veil was sundered, she was the one they wanted to go through first.

Kill her, and she came back.

No matter the death, no matter how many times, she would rise again.

Like what Prince Renathal hoped for, hers was an element of surprise. No one expected the little elf to pop back up, shadows seething. Never mind that the one who cursed her was very likely in the Maw and very likely enjoyed some type of favoritism from the Jailer for his creative and sadistic tendencies.

So far, she’d only died once in the Shadowlands. In Maldraxxus, not that anyone else had survived to know the truth of it. Regardless that her secret seemed intact, she didn’t doubt she’d be considered premium cannon fodder the second the _upstanding_ leaders of the realms found out. 

Prince Renathal seemed like a decent sort—he was certainly loyal to his allies—but she didn’t want to get her hopes up too high.

Even without knowing about her curse, the fact that she could go in and out of the Maw made her far too useful to be considered anything other than a tool. 

How she longed for the days when barely anyone knew her name, and she was welcomed not as the Dragonlily or the Maw Walker, but simply as another person on the road.

Liila and Shawn finished adjusting the last of the mirrors, and Shawn paused, eyeing the dredgers that were standing ready to manipulate the main one once they were ready to join the assault. No doubt he was wondering about the ‘buff goblins’ as she had when she first arrived. Rendle had had one hell of a time convincing Liila that dredgers weren’t secretly related to goblins in some way.

Rendle, one of the dredgers ready to man the mirror, motioned for them to go down, and she peered over the edge to see what great force had been amassed to storm the castle.

She counted five venthyr and a handful of stoneborn.

Liila wanted to scream.

Of those gathered, two of the venthyr she had saved from the Maw were absent, and in their places, she saw Nadjia the Mistblade—who offered her a quick salute with her blade—and the Mad Duke, Theotar.

Theotar’s grin would have been infectious in any other setting as he waved to her, calling for her to join them. However, she barely noticed that as she instead realized just how he intended to go into battle against the realm’s god.

Shirtless.

Because of course he was still shirtless.

Hadn’t anyone talked to him about having something—anything—to catch a blade coming his way?

The prince had donned armor, at least, but he either hadn’t tried or hadn’t been able to get Theotar into some.

Liila made a note to keep an eye on Theotar during the fighting and jumped down, dispersing right before she hit the ground so that she didn’t take damage. Shawn jumped after her, and she caught him with a levitate at the last possible second, to which he offered an overly cheerful ‘thank you’.

Prince Renathal stood tall, looking strong and capable as he gave her and Shawn a short nod and then turned to start the charge.

At first, things seemed to be looking like perhaps he was right. Perhaps the element of surprise would make all the difference between his first attempt to overthrow the master of the realm and this one, despite their miniscule numbers.

They battled their way through the courtyard and around to the side, awakening stoneborn and fending off loyalists.

And then they met Denathrius.

Shawn got caught back with Nadjia and Theotar fending off reinforcements who had found ways out of the castle that didn’t involve the main entrance. Stoneborn carried off the Accuser and the Curator.

Liila managed one shield around Prince Renathal, drawing Sire Denathrius’ attention. With barely a look her way, Denathrius curled his fingers on one hand, a motion so discrete that she might have missed it, had it not been for the effect. The death runes carved into her flared to life, far more potent than they should have been. She fumbled and collapsed almost instantly, the pain of her curse overwhelming her senses in a way it had never done before. It should have occurred to her that a death god would sense and be able to manipulate death runes, and yet…

And yet she had been just as foolish as the prince, it seemed.

The searing pain was sharp, like the kind that came in pulsing waves, only this wave wouldn’t pass. She gritted her teeth, trying to focus on anything beside it.

She hoped Shawn wasn’t suffering the same effects, wherever he was behind her.

Looking ahead, she could vaguely recognize two figures. Something flew through the air and one of them faltered. The smaller one. The prince?

She couldn’t be sure.

Her vision blurred.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she pushed her focus past her pain, to her other senses, willing herself to overcome this torment. When she opened her eyes, she could see a little better.

Prince Renathal was being held up by his neck.

The world cracked.

Buildings began to collapse and fall away as a river of red flooded into the ether and reached out straight to the Maw.

She could make out the murmur of Sire Denathrius’ voice, but not what he was saying.

Prince Renathal struggled in vain, fingers clawing at his sire’s grip and legs kicking at the air futilely.

Seeing him there, helpless, at the mercy of something so wicked, made something snap inside of her.

With a quiet swear, Liila reached into herself with all the strength she had left and cast leap of faith onto the prince.

His rasping gasp sounded in her ear as she tried to erect a shield between them and his master. It wavered and flickered out before it could even fully form.

Sire Denathrius was unimpressed, but he made no move to come after them. Instead, he left the prince with words spoken as one might a defiant child that was about to be punished. “Consider this a lesson.”

And with that, the sire of the realm simply left.

As though they weren’t even worth killing.

Prince Renathal scrambled to his feet, moving toward the broken bridge that overlooked the draining anima and fell to his knees.

The last thing Liila saw before she passed out was General Jackass leaning over her and saying something. Whatever it was, it was lost to the rushing of blood in her ears as darkness overtook her senses.


	3. Damned and Doomed

Renathal strode tall through the halls, nodding to the few guarantors who had joined the cause and were currently standing guard around Sinfall. As though any of them could actually stand against the Master if he decided to come for them.

Not that he would.

Not right away, anyway.

No, Denathrius would let Renathal wallow in his failure. He’d want it to sink in that Renathal was leading all of these people to their doom, letting them cling to some sliver of hope that didn’t exist.

Renathal had known before he’d been tossed into the Maw. For all his boasting of compassion, Denathrius was vicious against those who he felt had wronged him. The Ember Ward becoming a place of exile was evidence of that.

Even so, when Renathal had lost that first time, he had wanted to try again. After all, Revendreth was his home, and he’d be damned if he sat back and watched it crumble to pieces just because his first endeavor had ended so miserably.

His mind had been a whir with plans and all manner of ploys that they could use to their advantage…until he had seen just how few of them there were.

Renathal knew that the first failure had dealt a massive blow to their cause, he _knew_ that.

But to see his army, his swath of followers, was down to this handful in front of him.

Nadjia had been a new face—apparently she’d been in a cage during the first rebellion—but beyond that…

Despite their attempts to prove otherwise, Devahia and Tenaval had been in no condition to fight, either. Nor had the Curator, though she had simply glowered at him when he attempted to get her to stay behind.

He had a feeling that she had realized the same thing he had.

Their cause was lost.

Like him, she had known that Denathrius was too strong for them, and that the people who had followed them would suffer unimaginable torments at the hands of their corrupted Master.

The realization had been so abrupt. There would be no victory. The few of them who were left were _too_ _few_.

Seeing their meager numbers, he had known they couldn’t win.

However, he wasn’t about to live like this, trapped in his own realm, waiting to waste away in the light while Denathrius continued to starve the rest of the Shadowlands.

No, if he was going to be defeated, it would be final. He would force Denathrius’s hand. Renathal would be unmade by his master for his supposed transgressions, and he would take no lesser fate.

If he’d thought it possible to beat Denathrius, that would have been another matter.

But this…he was staring death in the face, and there would be no victory, no triumph to share with the venthyr he had foolishly led against their creator.

Better that they all be smote quickly than to suffer.

That alone, to die by his Master’s hand rather than suffer as Denathrius wanted him to, would be the only victory that Renathal could hope for.

The people around him knew they couldn’t win either. He was surprised they stayed, in all honesty.

No doubt some of the venthyr he’d initially led had begged forgiveness. He hoped they had been spared, almost wanted to believe that most of the faces missing were safely back in Castle Nathria, though he knew that wasn’t true.

Renathal needed to be honest with himself and the others about their position.

They were doomed.

It was so obvious, and yet, despite the obvious truth of it, there were a few defiant souls who refused to accept that fate.

The Accuser hadn’t given up just yet. Neither had General Draven. The both of them still had plans for how to cling to their meager stronghold. Under the Accuser’s urging, General Draven had gone to Oribos to try to snag a few mortals who might be able to turn the tides somehow.

He wasn’t sure how much that would help. They’d had two before, and it hadn’t made a difference.

He hadn’t even so much as nicked the Master, and Sire Denathrius had brought them all to their knees.

He’d been _so_ focused on his master in battle that he hadn’t noticed when his allies had been swept up, or when the Maw Walker had been injured. Even when she’d pulled him back to safety—not that she’d needed to, as his sire had already decided to let him live—he hadn’t realized how badly she was hurt.

It hadn’t been until Draven alerted them that she was unconscious that he’d noticed.

The other mortal, Shawn, had been quick to take her with Draven and the message of what had happened back to Oribos.

Renathal wanted to go there himself, to check up on the two of them—Shawn’s injuries had looked grave as well, though he’d had no apparent problems moving despite them.

However, he couldn’t very well leave on a whim. His sire would know before he reached the edges of the realm. And even if he did leave, the likelihood that he could get back were slim. How perfect would it be to be trapped _outside_ of Revendreth by its master, unable to return to his followers as they were slaughtered?

Because even if they were doomed, he wouldn’t leave the others to face oblivion without him.

It was the least he could do.

While he mulled over the inevitability of their defeat, his feet carried him through Sinfall’s corridors and to the room he had claimed for himself. It was away from the others, partially cluttered with broken furniture that the dredgers hadn’t gotten around to disposing of, with a salvageable desk to one side. Draven had put a few scrolls and reports on it along with a map, ever the dutiful general.

Renathal skimmed them, only for his heart to sink more. All that they had claimed during the first rebellion was lost, and the best they had were a few allies who were willing to help them with supplies and the like, _if_ the rebels could protect them in return.

Considering what Denathrius might do to them, he understood why their aid would be contingent on such things, but with such small numbers, they could promise nothing.

It was all so futile.

He stood in front of the desk another moment, debating whether he ought to just toss the papers away or not, and for the first time, his shoulders slumped. Renathal quickly straightened up again as the shift in his muscles made the injuries his master had inflicted upon him ache sharply.

Remornia had sliced into him over and over, and his wounds were almost too much to bear.

He would have allowed himself to succumb to them if not for the others here. They deserved someone who could still stand tall, who could still lead them to their demise without writhing behind the front lines, waiting to expire while he listened to the screams of anguish of his fellow rebels.

Granted, even if he did lead them into battle, there was no guarantee he would fall first. If they rushed the castle again, now, Denathrius would make them suffer.

It twisted him into knots.

Renathal had failed and now all of them were going to pay the price. And it was going to be extracted _so_ slowly. Denathrius had always been such a patient creature. And he could easily wait out his creations.

He would wait until they were desperate and afraid and starving, and then he would start picking them off.

He would save the ones Renathal held the dearest until last. That would hurt the most.

And Sire Denathrius was excellent at extracting pain.

As Renathal eased into the chair at his desk, staring blankly down at a map of Revendreth, a knock came at his door.

He was out of his seat and standing tall again before the door had even swung open. However, he instantly sunk back to rest on the edge of his desk when he saw Draven standing there. “I wasn’t expecting your return so soon. How is Oribos?”

Draven let out a low growl as he eased himself through the doorway, his large wings making the action a bit of an ordeal. They scraped against the top of the arching door, despite his attempts to avoid it. Once he was standing inside, he crossed his arms. “It was too much to hope you’d rest.”

“There is much to do, my dear friend.”

Draven’s frown deepened, emphasized by his large fangs. They were soulbound, and Draven could feel the hopelessness in him just as surely as Renathal could feel the desperate hope that Draven clung to even now. “Oribos has more than a few mortals roaming the halls, since you wanted to know.”

“Any interested in joining our noble cause?” He asked, unable to hide the doubt in his voice.

“One, so far.”

Renathal tried to smile, but couldn’t get it to stick. “Let me guess, someone who’s a fan of in-dominatable odds?”

“I thought you’d want to greet them,” Draven replied, unmoved by Renathal’s open despair. “They’ll be here soon.”

Renathal nodded, motioning for Draven to go ahead. “Very well. I just need a moment to make myself presentable.”

Once Draven had made his exit, Renathal moved carefully across the room to where his few possessions were gathered. He considered his breastplate, but knew putting it on would be too difficult, considering where some of his cuts and bruises were. Instead, he opted to keep on his current high collared shirt. It hid his injuries well, especially the dark bruises that encompassed his neck. So long as he took care not to bump into anything, he would be fine.

He took another moment to brush any wrinkles from his clothes and make sure that he looked as presentable as any proper venthyr should, before bracing himself and stepping back out into the hall.

He walked with purpose, not letting any of those he passed see the pain that wracked him with every step.

He reached the mirror a bit slower than he would have liked, though he took comfort in the fact that the mortal would likely be smaller than him and give him an excuse to keep his pace casual so that they could keep up.

Renathal was composing a quick speech in his head that would adequately convey their unfortunate position without making it too bleak when a figure stepped through the mirror.

All his pretty words of doom and valiant last stands slipped from his mind as his gaze met the Maw Walker’s.

He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t help the smile that stretched his lips.

She hadn’t bothered with her hood this time, though her hair was gathered up in a bun that looked like it had been a last-minute addition to her outfit. She was still in dark colors, but her robes weren’t as bulky as what she’d worn before, and he could see the gentle curves beneath them more easily. Small as she was, her figure was pleasing to the eye.

He motioned toward her when she nodded to him a little awkwardly. “I knew you would see merit in our cause.”

…-…

“You seem to have become fast friends with the Maw Walker.”

To anyone else, the words might have sounded like more of an accusation than an observation, but Renathal knew that the Accuser always had that harsh edge to her voice. Her dedication to their purpose left her little room for unnecessary niceties.

Renathal looked up from the different notes that he was skimming, trying to figure out which threats could be dealt with and which ones they would have to sit back and hope for the best. After all, they hardly had the resources to manage Sinfall, let alone right everything wrong with the realm.

Not that they’d be able to fix much of anything before Denathrius decided to snuff out the last embers of their rebellion. Even though they were most certainly doomed, seeing the Maw Walker’s return had stirred something in him, and he found himself resolving to give Denathrius the fight of a lifetime. Instead of running headlong into battle, they would nettle the Master’s forces and see what could be done. Perhaps given enough time, one of the other realms could step in and—

A fool’s errand, surely, but he needed to focus on the present, didn’t he? He finally looked up to face the Accuser. “You have a problem with her?”

“I did,” the Accuser replied, that unerring honesty of hers ever present. “When she first arrived, we tried to dissuade her, but she acted like a loyal pawn, carrying out Denathrius’s will.” Her usual frown deepened. “When I showed her the truth of his treachery, and he saw us, she made a comment implying she would look the other way if he just gave her the anima she needed.” She let out a sigh. “When she joined us, I assumed it was because she had no choice. Denathrius had discarded her, and she needed allies to protect herself.”

“What changed your mind?”

“She went to the Maw.” The Accuser walked over to him, letting her gaze wander down to the papers on his desk. “We didn’t know what had become of you, and certainly hadn’t assumed that Denathrius would send you…there.” She was quiet a second before adding. “Especially you.”

He allowed himself a grimace. The Accuser was a good enough ally and friend that he need not put on airs in front of her.

“Draven scoured all of Revendreth for you—all of you.” The Accuser murmured. “Over and over, he searched, trying to find where you had been taken. It took an eternity to find out about Theotar’s fate. We sent the Maw Walker to learn yours, but never imagined her namesake would come in handy.”

Renathal could understand their surprise. Prior to his rebellion, he never would have imagined that he could have ever done _anything_ that would lead to his creator casting him into the Maw. In all the eons that he had existed, the worst his sire had ever been to him was disappointed.

If Renathal did something against the Master’s will, Sire Denathrius had wanted to know why. Where others elicited his rage, Renathal could make the same mistakes and instead of anger, Sire Denathrius would be curious as to _why_ he acted out. That is not to say that he never earned the Master’s punishment, but it was always a cold discipline, never vengeance or wrath.

When he had been dragged to Sinfall, he had known this time would be different, but he hadn’t realized just how much so.

He had expected to be beaten, harvested, locked away for millennia. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that his master could _go_ further with him.

Or the Curator. She had always been much more obedient than he, perhaps because she knew she would not be granted the same leeway that Renathal was afforded. Perhaps she was just the better person. It was hard to say.

What he hadn’t expected was to be trapped in a small ward, unharmed, and forced to watch as his allies were tortured. He had clawed through that first ward and rushed to the Curator’s side only to hit another barrier, just inches outside of the first. The Curator had been left, injured and struggling on the floor in front of him while he worked in vain to reach her, to protect her.

She was a sister to him, like the Stonewright and Fearstalker. She was his family, and it was his fault that she had been harmed. In all their existence, their sire had never once raised a hand to her—he’d never needed to—and now…

Renathal had begged Sire Denathrius to hurt him instead. He’d confessed that it was all his idea, that the Curator and the others didn’t deserve this.

His sire had mocked him for his ‘noble sacrifice’.

Just when he’d thought he had gotten through to the Master, somehow, his allies had been tossed into the Maw.

They had fallen away, and he had watched each of them until they disappeared, gone from Revendreth.

And then he had been staring into the red eyes of the Master, full of a fury he had never even known could exist.

Only then had he realized the extent of his sire’s anger. Only then had he realized just how badly he’d damned his allies. The ones who had been caught already were lucky compared to whatever Sire Denathrius had planned for those still holding out. There was going to be a massacre and there was nothing Renathal could do to stop it.

He had been shoved into the Maw, that pure rage imprinted into his mind.

Yet when he’d attempted to end things a second time, Sire Denathrius had acted as he used to. Almost dismissive.

He’d acted as though he hadn’t tossed Renathal aside so completely.

_Let this be a lesson._

Renathal wasn’t sure what the lesson was supposed to be anymore. All he knew was that he was going to make sure that Sire Denathrius failed, if only in his plans for his defiant creations.

“I think a measure of caution is due,” the Accuser replied, drawing him out of his memories. Had she been waiting patiently for him to come back or had she been talking the whole time? If his guilt showed on his face, she made no indication. “I would like to believe in her—in the Maw Walker,” she made sure to clarify as though to make sure Renathal knew what they were talking about, “but with our position as it is, we must take care of who we trust.”

While he understood what she was saying, he still cocked his head. “You approved of gifting her our power.”

The Accuser frowned. “I am not saying she cannot be useful or that she will not prove trustworthy in the end. I am simply asking you err on the side of caution. For once.”

“It was the medallions that betrayed us last time,” Renathal stated. Despite keeping his tone neutral, he waited to see if she would contradict him. When she didn’t, he nodded. “We shall keep an eye on her and any other mortals who show up on our doorstep,” he offered. “We will make sure they have not bent their knee to the Master or any other malicious entity.”

The Accuser looked like she wanted to say more, but instead, after floundering a moment, she gave him a short, grim nod. Her gaze turned toward the papers on Renathal’s desk before she abruptly turned away. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

There was more she wanted to say. Renathal knew it. Ever since he’d returned, there was a tension between them that begged to be aired, but he didn’t know how to address it himself, and she was holding back. It was unusual for her, and that made him all the more cautious.

He had a feeling he knew what it was.

The Curator.

The Maw had taken the sharpest mind in the Shadowlands and shredded it. The Curator smiled and assured everyone who gave her so much as a glance that she was fine, but he could see how lost she was when she thought no one was looking. He’d stopped outside the door to her room and heard her trying to recall names of people that should have come easily to her. When he’d knocked on the door, she’d quickly abandoned the topic, assurances that she was more than capable of carrying on against their sire replacing the earlier waver in her voice.

It pained him to see her like this, and he knew it pained the Accuser as well. They had been lovers for eons, likely the single most steadfast relationship in all of Revendreth.

Sire Denathrius had once asked Renathal if he was jealous of them, if he wanted something like that for himself. Renathal had laughed it off, though when he’d looked at his master, he’d noticed that there was an odd look on his sire’s face. He’d never quite understood it, though it came back to him from time to time, an echo to remind him of all he didn’t know.

An unwelcome echo now.

Renathal didn’t want to remember the good times. He didn’t want to remember the late nights in the beginning where Sire Denathrius would wave aside the miasma of their realm to show him stars and tell him of the worlds beyond. He didn’t want to think of the first parties thrown to ease the weariness in the souls of those who worked so diligently to harvest sin.

And he didn’t want to think about how those parties had slowly become more and more extravagant, growing further and further away from their original purpose until they were a beast all their own.

It would be so much easier if he could just look at Sire Denathrius as a traitor, think only of him casting the Curator and himself into the Maw, and not remember the tenderness he had shown when the Stonewright had carved her first stoneborn. How he had celebrated their first redeemed soul.

There was no escape though. Every stone, every leaf, every soul…it all wound back to him, the Master. The walls coming up, the dredgers first being made, Sire Denathrius’s pleased scrutiny of the forests that he created, asking what Renathal thought of them and grinning when Renathal’s jaw dropped as his sire made them vast with the twist of his wrist.

Everything in Revendreth had a memory of the Master attached to it.

And so Renathal turned his attention away from it, if only for a moment, if only to quiet the betrayal that still stung him in the core of his being. He had never understood the mortal souls’ talk of broken hearts until now.

Instead of all the countless eons he had spent with his sire—his father, he thought instead of the Maw Walker. She alone came from the time where the Master was fallen from grace. How much she had missed, how much she would never know to be in awe of.

Though…she was an awe-inspiring creature herself. A mere mortal, sauntering through the worst corners of reality. She was the Master’s opposite, and he wanted to know more of her, to see what made her work, what caught her whims, what gave her strength.

Maybe he could find something there that could help him find an existence for himself outside of his sire’s shadow.

Not that he needed a savior. The Shadowlands might, but he would manage on his own.

No, what he needed was simply a change, inspiration for a new direction.

The Accuser was right that he should be cautious. If he wasn’t careful, he could see himself attempting to find a replacement of sorts for Sire Denathrius, and that would be foolish.

There was no replacing him.

And there was no fixing the hole in his absent heart because of that.

Renathal would have to carry on, but perhaps he could learn something. Perhaps he could distract himself, learning from mortals. The way souls talked, mortals suffered heartache all too often, so perhaps they would have suggestions for what to do, how to move on.

If it was truly possible.

Assuming the Maw Walker could be trusted.

He thought back to the Maw, to how she had seemed reserved, but willing to help. He thought to their attempted overthrow, of how she had spoken against the attack, but still gone. Of how she had been injured, but tried to protect him none-the-less.

And most importantly, how she had come _back_.

There was a resilience there he could stand to learn from. He was certain of that.

He wasn’t sure how long he had spent wrestling with his conflicting emotions, but he was finally drawn from them by a knock on his door.

Regardless of his earlier disposition, it seemed that the Maw Walker’s return had brought much needed hope to all of those in Sinfall, along with increased activity. This was the fourth visitor he’d had to his chambers since her arrival.

No rest for the wicked, it seemed.

Turning, he paused when he saw the very person he’d just been thinking about standing there. The Maw Walker took his attention as an invitation into his room and walked up until she was standing in front of him again. “Do Venthyr not have healers?”

While she had seemed almost void of emotion in the Maw, here she allowed herself to show her curiosity, with faint concern mixed in. Her voice held more life to it, her monotone abandoned.

He blinked, surprised by the notion. Then he frowned, realizing the implications of her question. He stood a little taller. “We heal with anima, which—as you know—is scarce of late.”

She nodded, gaze meeting his, her head tilted back so that her chin almost looked like it was raised in defiance, rather than so she could see him. “My healing…did it actually help?”

Renathal hesitated. While he hoped that she might change the subject, she instead stared up at him, with an unreadable expression replacing her curiosity.

Comparing the momentary discomfort to the pain he was in now moved him to concede.

“It did.”

The Maw Walker walked over to his desk and set her backpack on the edge, careful not to jostle any of his papers. He followed her and watched as she pulled out her spellbook and flipped to a few pages near the end. “I’ve been tinkering with a few spells. Let me know if it’s better or worse than before.”

He considered asking her if he was to be her test subject, but held his tongue. She was trying to help him, after all.

“May I see your injuries?”

“Looking to get my shirt off?” He teased, hoping to see a smile. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was just trying to distract himself.

Her gaze had still been on her spellbook when he spoke, and her eyes slowly rolled back up to focus on his. For an unbearable second, he thought she was offended. And then she spoke.

“How else will I grate my carrots?”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. It made everything hurt all the more, and the amusement quickly died down. When the aching had subsided, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall down around his shoulders to show off the worst of his injuries.

She reached out to brush her fingertips near the bruises on his neck. Her touch was uncomfortably warm, and he realized she wasn’t wearing gloves this time. He could hear the quiet thrum of her essence flowing inside of her, and a thumping in her chest, slow and steady, as she inspected him. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it before, when they were in the Maw, or when she’d held him briefly after being defeated by his Master.

Not his master.

Never again would his sire be his _master_.

Her magic washed over and through him. There was no prickling sensation at the beginning this time, though it still felt off. Perhaps it was the lack of anima in the magic, that it felt more like it was rearranging him in some way, instead of adding back what was lost.

However, it did the trick, and as it faded, he found that he hurt considerably less. Renathal dared to roll one of his shoulders, checking to see how much his dexterity had improved. When he found only a small ache, he nodded to the Maw Walker. “Thank you. That was much better than last time.”

She simply motioned for him to turn. He did so obediently, glancing over his shoulder to watch her, though his neck still hurt enough that he couldn’t do so for long.

She had long nails, but that didn’t stop the warmth from her fingertips from burning his skin as she touched him near the worst cut Remornia had given him. The blade had sliced clean through his armor on several instances, making the wounds all the worse as the severed metal had bent inward after the blade itself was gone.

He waited patiently as she tended to his wounds, pausing occasionally to look over her spells. He could trace which injuries she was focused on by where her warmth brushed against him. Were all mortals like this? He’d heard some new souls complain about being cold before, but by the time they became venthyr—if they became venthyr—such complaints were mere memory.

“That will have to do for now,” the Maw Walker murmured after healing a cut on his arm.

He instinctively pulled his shirt back into place, turning to thank her yet again. When he saw the rings under her eyes had darkened substantially, he paused. “You shouldn’t expend yourself on my behalf.”

Again that gaze turned up to meet his, so painfully slowly, like she was giving herself time to bite back whatever it was she might say otherwise.

She tilted her head back, appraising him. “I’m very fond of Theotar, and he’s very fond of you. If you fall over dead, I’ll have to bring you back just to beat you on his behalf.” She rapped the back of her knuckles against his chest. “So take better care of yourself.”

Renathal dipped into a gracious bow, keeping his gaze locked with hers. “I will make the utmost efforts, Maw Walker.”

She let out a half laugh as she rolled her eyes and then turned to gather her things. “You’d better.”

When she turned to go, he leaned back to sit on the edge of his desk as he buttoned up his shirt. “Leaving so soon?”

She paused, arching one of her long, delicate brows. “The only other reasons I can think to stay would require you buying me dinner first.”

It threw him that she would be so blunt, and he found himself chuckling at the mere idea. He saw a faint smile on her lips as she turned away and headed toward the door. When she reached it, she paused to look back at him, her expression gentle. “Get some rest. You look horrible.”


	4. Perchance to Dream

Liila knocked on the door to Prince Renathal’s room and waited until she heard him call for her to come in. Of all the higher ranking people she had dealt with over the years, the dark prince was the only one for whom she’d become a regular visitor to his personal chambers.

As soon as she opened the door, he was greeting her with his usual fatalism. “Darkest greetings, my fellow doomed friend.”

The room was lit with a few sconces, and the debris that had once cluttered it was gone. It looked like a proper office now, though it still wasn’t as extravagant as she would expect a prince’s quarters to be. His desk was to one side, with growing stacks of papers on it, and his map had been pinned to the wall for better access.

Near his desk was a large fainting couch—likely small by venthyr standards, though Liila could easily lay out on it without her feet going over the edge, if she so wanted—and then a few other chairs, none of which complimented each other. The décor of Sinfall was a bit mismatched, thanks to the lack of funds and decrepit nature of the fortress. The walls might have withstood the Light’s assault, but the march of time had not been kind to the furniture.

Beyond those meager things, the room was mostly empty, though there was a door to another room that she had never seen opened. Likely, it was where the prince slept.

Not that he ever seemed to.

Again, the difference in mortal and immortal needs were so stark.

As she closed the door behind her, she noted that the prince was not at his desk, as he usually was, but instead, sprawled out on the fainting couch, one leg stretched out all the way so that his foot hung off the end. One of his hands rested on his stomach while he massaged his temple with the other.

His boots sat neatly near the foot of the couch, and his armor rested on stand just beyond.

“I do believe I warned you about being careless,” Liila said as she walked over to him.

He merely opened one eye to watch her drag a chair over so that she could sit beside him.

When she was situated, she sighed. “Kelatar is busy with some recruits who were ambushed by ash ghouls, so you’re stuck with me. I’ll try to make this as pleasant as possible…”

With a nod, he sat up, despite her assurances that he needn’t, and unbuttoned his shirt. He shrugged it off as Liila’s fingers brushed just shy of a nasty gash running across his chest. “What happened?”

“Does it matter?”

Of course it did.

Though, she supposed the person she’d report the incident to _was_ the one sitting in front of her, and she was, more or less, a minion, so she didn’t _need_ to know everything.

Despite wanting to, she simply shrugged it off. She kept a small vial of anima on her person these days, a trick learned from Kelatar as the venthyr mender had taken Liila under her wing to help her with her healing of the dead.

Liila infused her spell with a few precious drops and went about healing Prince Renathal’s most recent injury.

He let out a pleased hum when she was done.

As she inspected him, making sure that there was no bruising or any sort of complication she might need to deal with, he reached up and took her hand in his.

“Thank you.”

Before she could dismiss his thanks, he brought her hand up to his lips and brushed a light kiss against her palm.

Liila’s mind blanked.

Prince Renathal tilted his head a little as he watched her, his other hand reaching out to brush hair away from Liila’s face. His thumb trailed over her cheek. “Does it bother you? When I touch you?”

“No.” The word was a whisper that almost caught in her throat.

His smile was beautiful. In the last few weeks, she had become used to seeing flashes of sharp teeth and the smiles that had once left her a tad uneasy now shown to her for what they were. Prince Renathal’s, of course, was the brightest, not that he smiled often.

This was the first time she’d seen him truly happy, wasn’t it?

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers, savoring the touch. Then, he titled her chin up and kissed her.

Her heart raced.

This was all happening so fast.

Yes, she found him charming and sincere and oddly handsome and utterly wonderful…

She forgot where her thoughts had been going as he tugged her collar to the side and kissed her shoulder.

She let out a soft, startled cry as his tongue ran over her skin and—

“ _MAW WALKER_!”

Liila’s eyes snapped open, and she tried to throw her hands up in front of her to fend off whatever attack was coming, but stopped when she realized she was looking at Nadjia, instead of whatever monster she was expecting.

She lay there a moment, heart pounding in her throat, as the world came into focus.

She was lying by a small fire in the Banewood, with Nadjia leaning over her, holding her by the wrists.

“You were having a nightmare,” Nadjia explained when she decided that Liila was conscious enough to understand. She released Liila’s hands and patted her head. “Your little heart was racing so hard I thought you were going to die. Not sure how I’d explain _that_ back at Sinfall.”

As Nadjia rocked back to give Liila room to sit up, Liila’s dream came back to her, and she felt the blood rushing up to her cheeks and painting the tips of her ears crimson. She rested her forehead against her knees, eyes squeezed shut. She would have simply pushed the dream away, out of sight, out of mind, were it not for the small gasp beside her that made her turn her head.

Nadjia’s eyes were wide.

“ _That_ wasn’t a nightmare…”

The absolute wickedness of the grin that replaced her souldbind’s earlier concern gave Liila pause.

“I apologize, Maw Walker,” Nadjia said, words painfully slow. “Had I realized you were _enjoying_ yourself, I would have—”

She cackled and darted away as Liila threw a fist full of dirt and anima-starved grass at her.

When they had become soulbinds, the Accuser had told them that they would experience each other’s memories and feelings and hopes…and dreams.

Liila had been reluctant to even try such a thing, as she was worried that binding her soul to another might lead to her curse spreading somehow. After all, it was designed specifically to afflicted her soul. Nadjia had been present when Liila voiced her concerns, and even as the Accuser seemed to reconsider, Nadjia had insisted they go ahead with it, almost giddy with the idea of being a test subject.

Despite her better judgment, Liila had finally agreed to see what would happen.

Soulbinding, it turned out, was not all that it was hyped to be.

Whatever memories Liila had seen of Nadjia’s were so blurry and dulled that she might as well have not seen them at all. And as far as emotions and hopes, she only got the dullest echos of extraordinarily strong feelings.

Mostly, she occasionally felt random excitement in the back of her mind and knew that it was Nadjia about to fight someone or thing.

And as for dreams…

Liila had warned Nadjia of her nightmares not because she feared they would be shared—they’d already established that it likely wouldn’t happen—but because hers led her to lash out when they got too bad.

It had taken years after escaping the Scourge for her dreams to settle down to the point where someone could so much as touch her while she was sleeping without her waking up and thinking that her tormentor was back.

And then she had gone to fucking Maldraxxus.

As if the realm itself hadn’t been enough to make her relive some of her old trauma, seeing the mutilated corpses of kyrian in the House of Constructs had revived her former nightmares and _enhanced_ them.

The night fae in Ardenweald had been kind to her. She wasn’t sure how they did it, but whenever her dreams turned wicked, they had blurred and shifted into quieter things that she didn’t remember when she woke up.

She thought it had something to do with the music they played, but hadn’t ever asked.

She’d been afraid to know the secrets, afraid that it somehow wouldn’t work if she knew.

Here, the nightmares had come back, though the night fae’s endeavors seemed to linger, dulling them just enough that Liila didn’t wake up lost, not knowing where or when she was.

This dream though…

She had not had any dreams like _this_ one in a long time.

Nadjia was still grinning, from the far side of their fire, the light from the flames playing on her sharp features and teeth making her look all the more wicked. Her head rested in her hands, elbows propped on her knees.

“Who was it about? Should I guess?”

With a cough, Liila brushed some of the leftover dirt from her fingers and did her best to put on a neutral expression. She was used to masking anger and pain, but this…this wasn’t something she usually had to worry about. “It was nothing.”

Nadjia’s smile slipped. “You know, we venthyr can taste sin.”

“I’ve noticed,” Liila murmured, frown in place. How many times had the Fearstalker said she could taste someone’s fear? Others talked of pride or envy dripping from different mortals who came and went.

“That includes lies,” Nadjia said, sitting up a little straighter. “I don’t think you’ve ever lied to me before. I’m disappointed, Maw Walker.”

“It was nothing I want to talk about. Better?” Liila asked, already gathering her belongings.

Nadjia doused their fire—Liila was the only one who really benefited from it, but Nadjia was dutiful about building one up whenever they stopped to rest. Liila half suspected that the venthyr just liked to watch the flames, but she didn’t say anything.

“That’s boring,” Nadjia replied, already on her feet and inspecting her weapon, as though it could have somehow gotten damaged in the few hours they had paused. “I think I prefer the lies.”

“If I’m being honest, I’m surprised you don’t die of boredom watching me nap.”

“I’m not a stoneborn, Maw Walker. I don’t just sit in one place and stare at you until you start moving again.” Nadjia kept her pace slow enough that Liila could keep up. That wouldn’t last long, no doubt. Once she got impatient, she’d be wandering away and back, essentially walking circles around Liila to keep herself from going stir crazy.

“What _do_ you do?”

“Wander a bit,” Nadjia replied. “Sometimes I climb the trees. Talk to people passing by.”

It made Liila uneasy to think strangers were coming close to where she rested.

“Don’t worry, I don’t let them find _you_.”

Liila frowned, glancing over to see Nadjia was watching her with an amused look.

“If they’re too close to the camp, I intercept them. If they’re friendly, I walk them just out of sight and send them on their way, usually to Darkhaven or Sinfall, if I can. And if they’re not…” She made a point to look over her blade with particular affection, “I handle it.”

Liila offered a soft word of thanks as they headed off.

While she’d worried that Nadjia might try to tease her about her dream, her soulbind was mercifully indifferent to the subject once it was dismissed, and the two fell into companionable silence.

They picked their way through the underbrush, heading back to the nearest road. Liila noticed a widowbloom off to one side, chose to leave it. Everything in Revendreth was so parched and brittle that when she did come across something that wasn’t completely withered, she liked to leave it for the wildlife to nibble on instead.

They made their way the Ember Ward, dropping off some of the most questionable snacks Liila had ever found for Stonehead—half of them had been Nadjia’s ideas, as she worked with dredgers and bigguns often enough to know their tastes.

From there, they parted ways, with Nadjia heading back into Banewood to chase gorgers while Liila went on to the Ember Ward. Though Nadjia’s blade would have been helpful, she didn’t want the venthyr to fall victim to the Light.

It was unclear to her exactly how long it took venthyr to start losing their minds to it. She knew that they could guard Sinfall’s surface level in several hour shifts without seeming to lose any of themselves, but patrols in the Ember Ward were never going to happen.

Harsh as it was, she wished that the Light affected their bodies first. She could heal that—and she was getting better with healing the dead every day. When she was in Sinfall, she always allotted herself a few hours to go over notes with Kelatar, a mender she had recently rescued from the Maw. She’d left some of her spells with the mender the last time she was in Sinfall, so that the venthyr could look them over while she was away and figure out where Liila needed to improve or improvise.

Some of her spells were completely useless. Over the years in Azeroth, she’d learned how to tell a ruptured kidney from a damaged spleen, and a torn muscle from a bruised bone. By tailoring the spell, she could heal more efficiently without expending so much mana.

However, in the lands of the dead, the creatures didn’t have the same anatomy. They were souls, not bodies—even if she could touch them.

It confused her to no end that she could be called corporeal by the same beings that could pat her shoulder. They felt just as real as she was.

But they weren’t. They were essences, not flesh and bone—well, perhaps it was different for the Maldraxxi, not that she stayed around long enough to find out—and so her healing spells needed to be reimagined.

Her broad spells still worked, though all she had to do was let magic flicker at her fingertips and all the venthyr close enough to sense her magic would shudder.

Even some of the ghouls in the Ember Ward avoided her because of her healing spells rather than her fighting ability.

She rather wished that it had been that way in Azeroth. It would have been so much nicer if people had been asking her to stick with shadow spells during the Legion’s invasion.

She wished that, and yet there she was, in the Ember Ward, looking for souls to heal and save.

Whenever she finished her rounds in Revendreth, doing whatever tasks they found for her, she would swing through the Ember Ward before returning to Sinfall proper. She always brought a few cloaks with her to give out. They were thinner than most venthyr clothes, but better than nothing. She reasoned with the venthyr she could, telling them that they could come to Sinfall and stay out of the Light.

She’d made the mistake of telling one that they could take a bat from Sinfall to other parts of the realm if they wanted. Until then, the creature had seemed ready to come with her. After her offer, however, they declared her a liar and a wretch and threatened her if she didn’t leave them be.

Liila had left a cloak for them and moved on.

It was horrifying just how many venthyr had been exiled to burn away out there. Even if their crimes had been more than simply displeasing or questioning the master, it was so cruel a fate…

The longer she dwelled in Revendreth, the more she despised its master. Sire Denathrius was a monster.

A monster that was watching.

Stoneborn kept an eye on her from a distance. They didn’t even bother to hide it if she caught them, instead watching her with hateful glares that said they’d be more than happy to engage…if not for their orders.

Prince Renathal said that it was a tactic. Denathrius wanted them to know that everything they did was known, that they could not surprise the master of the realm.

Liila couldn’t help but wonder if Denathrius was doing that solely to nettle at the prince and remind him of his failed surprise attack.

If that was the case, Prince Renathal was doing a damned good job of not showing if it bothered him.

It was well into the next evening when she finally found herself at Theotar’s parlor, her last stop in the Ember Ward before subjecting herself to the next round of tasks to come.

As she walked up, Blisterback was the first to greet her, trotting up and sitting in front of her, his large body blocking her path. Despite his size, she couldn’t be afraid of the gargon, especially when she could hear the sand swishing around from his waggling tail.

He was a very good guard, though he did allow himself to get excited from time to time.

Like now.

Liila rummaged through her bags and pulled out a carefully wrapped haunch of meat. As she unwrapped it, Blisterback’s wagging tail became more hectic. Despite his enthusiasm, he was so careful when he took the haunch, as though he knew just how easily he could break her bones without even trying.

His gift received, he rose from his spot and escorted her to the entrance of the parlor, stopping outside to revel in his treat.

“There you are!” came Theotar’s pleasant voice as soon as she’d stepped inside. “I was beginning to think I should go look for you.”

Even as Liila opened her mouth to reply that he needn’t worry so, a laugh interrupted her.

“She’s the Maw Walker. And a priestess with ties to the Light,” Nadjia said, her tone dismissive of Theotar’s concern. “This is probably the safest ward _for_ her.”

Liila’s eyes narrowed as she grew accustomed to the shadows.

The long table had been dismantled and pushed aside against one wall for the time being, and Theotar was seated as a smaller table near the back of the room, the one he usually sat at to write. He had absolutely beautiful calligraphy, though she didn’t try to read his notes here unless they were on loose paper. His journals were private.

Today, he had a journal, but it was closed and pushed to one side, with his teapot pointedly blocking easy access from across the table.

Nadjia sat in Liila’s typical seat, idly inspecting a cup that was most certainly empty as she dangled it and turned it, like she might find some imperfection in the carefully wrought pattern on its outside.

Nadjia never came into the Ember Ward, let alone to Theotar’s parlor.

While the two weren’t unfriendly, they usually didn’t interact with one another. Theotar had a love for tea and Nadjia for duels. Theotar liked talking about noble gossip, and Nadjia liked lounging with the dredgers. While both seemed to respect the other, they didn’t have a lot in common.

“Come in, come in. Sit!”

Theotar had a stool pulled up to his table, and he patted it as he smiled brightly at Liila. He’d moved his own chair back so that he was resting his back against the wall, with Liila sitting at the other corner on his side.

Before she’d even settled in, a fresh cup of tea was waiting in front of her.

After thanking Theotar for the tea, Liila turned to eye Nadjia. “Is everything alright?”

Nadjia sat lopsided in her chair, one leg slung over one of the armrests and the other sticking out from under the table to where Liila’s stool might have otherwise gone. She reached to serve herself tea, and Theotar beat her to it, pouring her a fresh cup as he assured her that he would not be a poor host. Nadjia used her pinky to stir her tea, much to Theotar’s chagrin. “Everything’s fine. I just thought it might be nice to welcome you back.”

“You do so rarely get a proper fanfare upon your return,” Theotar agreed. “Though, I was explaining to her that you come here because you like the quiet.”

“And the company,” Liila reminded Theotar, to which his smile flashed again.

When Liila had first come to Revendreth, she had quickly found that anyone with a title seemed to be completely intolerable. She had wanted to throw the Lord Chamberlain out the carriage window, had barely been able to keep a smile in place while meeting Denathrius’s loyal harvesters, and had found that the Accuser was quite judgmental.

So when she had been sent to find a missing duke, she had wanted to scream, and had been mentally preparing herself _not_ to stab him at the first insufferable thing he said to her.

And then he had come out of hiding apologizing for having mistaken her for someone else. Well, she’d thought he was hiding at the time. Now she wasn’t sure if he had just been resting or…what, really.

Regardless, he had proven to be quite possibly the sweetest person in all of Revendreth. He was kind to everyone, dredger, ash ghoul, mortal. He could get a little lost when he was talking, especially if he’d been in the Light recently, but he was so dedicated to their cause—and a formidable ally. 

That anyone could have destroyed his parasol…

Taking it, she could understand—they were all desperate in the Ember Ward—but to just ruin it so that he’d be exposed to the Light was so unbelievably wicked.

As Theotar asked her about her trip, she told him the highlights—nothing spectacular had happened—and paused when she noticed Nadjia was staring her down.

When Theotar seemed distracted, Nadjia pointedly changed her gaze from Liila to Theotar and back, a brief questioning look on her face before she hid it behind her teacup when Theotar followed Liila’s gaze to her.

At first, it made no sense.

And then, the idea that Nadjia was asking about her dream struck her with full force, almost as though Nadjia herself was concentrating on sending that notion to her.

Liila wanted to smack her.

“Have I missed something?” Theotar asked, concern plain in his voice.

“Have you ever,” replied Nadjia who then busied herself with holding her cup prim and proper, like she hadn’t just opened a can of worms.

Liila kicked at Nadjia’s foot, but the duelist was too quick to draw it away, glee in her eyes as she took another sip of tea. Turning her head to Theotar, she started to say that nothing had happened, but stopped herself, thinking back to what Nadjia had said about sensing lies. She didn’t want to offend Theotar. Instead, she sighed.

“Nadjia has decided to torture me, which isn’t fair at all because I’m still _alive_.” 

Instantly, Nadjia was cackling like a madwoman. Were it not for the armrests, Liila was certain her soulbind would have fallen out of her chair.

As Liila drummed her nails against the edge of the table, she finally realized that Theotar hadn’t said anything. She carefully glanced at him to see that he was leaning against the table, one fist propping up his chin as he watched Liila, completely ignoring Nadjia as she tried—and failed—to stop laughing.

Apparently that had not been the way to get them off the subject.

“You know I will not stand for any bamboozlement…” Theotar stated, finally sitting up straight, still appraising Liila carefully. “That I cannot take part in.”

“There’s no bamboozlement.” Liila assured him. “Nadjia just wants to know more about my dreams, which is _pointless_ , because it’s not like I can _control_ them.”

Nadjia leaned against the edge of the table. “There’s more than one?”

“I meant in general,” Liila muttered. When Nadjia started to say something else, Liila quietly flicked a finger, and a shadow batted at Nadjia’s ear.

“Hey!” Nadjia batted at the shadow, eyeing the area around her before turning a narrowed gaze toward Liila.

“You couldn’t tell what the dream was about?” Theotar asked, cocking his head.

“Well—” Nadjia dodged a second shadow. She gave Liila a sharp look. “All those stories about seeing dreams and all that are nonsense.”

“No, they aren’t.” Theotar poured the lot of them more tea and then stirred his with a small spoon—small for venthyr at least. “Tell me, do you see each other’s memories?”

“They’re blurs,” Liila replied. Nadjia nodded in agreement.

“That is most unusual.” Theotar settled back into his chair, drumming his nails against the sides of his cup. “When you bound yourselves, you should have seen a sort of highlights of each other’s lives. And then, when something brings up a memory to one, the other should see it. It brings a deeper understanding that doesn’t require words.”

“The Accuser said something about kindred spirits,” Liila said.

When Theotar nodded, Liila sunk down a bit on her stool. Her soulbinding wasn’t working as it ought to? Perhaps her curse _was_ getting in the way…

“It could be that you’re mortal,” Theotar postulated. “Perhaps you could ask other mortals if their soulbinds have had better results?”

After nodding, Liila took a sip from her tea and then turned her attention back to Theotar. “You know a lot about this. Do you have a soulbind?”

At that, he stiffened. It was just a second, but that tiny moment formed a bubble in time which lasted entirely too long. When he finally relaxed and smiled, it was forced, his gaze on his tea. “I did. It was undone.”

The parlor was silent.

The way he spoke, there was heartbreak behind that story, and Liila instantly regretted asking. She searched for something to say, anything to make things better.

Nadjia was the one to come to the rescue. “I heard from a friend who heard from a friend that there’s some sort of court in the works? At Sinfall?”

Theotar perked up. “Why, yes. It’s just an idea for now, amorphous and elusive. But it would allow for us to garner favors and connections if we were to start hosting a court. It would help give our movement the legitimacy it so desperately requires if we are to succeed at restoring Revendreth.”

“What’s stopping us?” Liila asked, trying to remember if she’d heard anything about this yet. “Resources?”

Theotar blinked. “You’re interested?”

With a shrug, Liila motioned to Theotar. “I’d be interested in knowing more about it. And if it’s an issue of not having the proper...whatever you need for court, I’m sure I could find something.”

“Well, the most important thing we need is guests to expand our influence. Otherwise, it is just throwing parties for ourselves and that won’t do much good for anyone.” Theotar nearly jumped out of his seat as energy surged through him. He caught his teacup before it could spill, set it back on its saucer, and then began counting on his fingers. “And then we need something to entertain them with… Oh! And refreshments of course! One cannot invite people to such an event and not think to feed them. It would be quite rude.”

“You sound like you know a lot about this,” Liila said. “Are you going to be in charge?”

“Hmm…well, first we’ll need to talk to Prince Renathal…”

Perhaps it was because Nadjia just hadn’t been willing to let it go, but at the mere name, Liila froze for just a fraction of a second.

She pushed her hesitation away. There was no reason for her to be shy around Prince Renathal, especially not because of a silly dream. It wasn’t like she was actively lusting after him, after all. She’d had one dream, which was already hazy at best.

She would forget about it completely in a few days, anyway.

As she told herself this, she made a point to not look over and she if Nadjia had caught her slip up. Instead, she listened to Theotar as pulled out a piece of paper and began to take notes in that lovely handwriting of his.

…-…

Liila wasn’t sure how she’d gotten dragged into _this_.

One minute, she’d been arm linked with Theotar’s as he trotted through the halls of Sinfall, regaling her with stories of courts past—they sounded horrifying, but she had managed to stay interested by reminding herself she wouldn’t have to _actually_ participate in the ‘Ember Court’, should they manage to get it going. She would help from behind the scenes, and make certain to be elsewhere whenever it was actually going on.

The next minute, she was watching Theotar dance away with permission to officially plan out the court while Prince Renathal talked to her about helping him meet with the other Harvesters. He enlisted her to deliver messages and clear the way and then…

Liila followed the Accuser to the meeting spot in the center of the courtyard in front of Darkwall Tower. She wasn’t sure why she needed to be there, if she should excuse herself. Prince Renathal _had_ invited her along, but she didn’t know if it had been out of politeness because he had had her set up for the meeting. If she was meant to fall into the background with the dredgers, she was fine with that.

As she turned to ask the prince, she found that he was not with them. The Curator swept past her and next to the Accuser, talking quietly to her. The few guards they had present didn’t seem concerned by their leader’s absence.

With a glance upward, she noticed that the newly awakened Chelra was in the air, gaze toward south.

Liila had just started that way when she saw Prince Renathal returning to the main area. He noticed her attention and flashed her a quick smile.

“I am glad that you are here. My dredgers say you were quite the sight, cutting through the forces here. I’m sorry I couldn’t see it myself.”

Apparently wherever he’d gone was to be a secret. That was well enough. She didn’t need to know his every movement, after all.

The thought rang along a similar line of one from her dream—the damned thing wouldn’t die quietly like she’d hoped—and she found herself turning her attention back to the others to keep herself from being so obvious about her sudden inability to look him in the eyes.

“You’ve seen me fight before,” Liila objected, hoping to distract herself. “I doubt I was any different than before.”

“Such modesty,” Prince Renathal said, flashing another smile when she dared a glance his way. As he stood there, he looked around the courtyard, and his smile slipped. “There was a time when I hosted such wonderful gatherings at this tower. Even the Master could be seen, smiling, enjoying his time. He was beautiful to behold then, the true sire of the venthyr. I wonder how long he had been plotting with the Jaiiler. If even then his smile was a guise hiding his loathing for all of reality.”

As soon as he said it, she could see that he had shown her a wound he hadn’t meant to.

His words were so genuine, his tone so bared. For a breath, Liila could see just how deeply his sire’s betrayal had cut him.

No.

No, this was a wound that was far deeper than anything she could see. But she understood what it was to have something happen that tainted one’s happy memories, that made one realize that sometimes love alone wasn’t enough to make things right.

She wanted to reach out to him, to take his hand, tell him that his pain would become tolerable after enough time had passed. Anything to fix that emptiness he no doubt wrestled with because of his loss.

She wanted to help him, but his sire’s betrayal was something far beyond her healing abilities. While she had suffered betrayals herself, she doubted any of them could really compare with what the prince was going through. To have one’s god, one’s father, one’s friend, all in one turn against oneself…

She couldn’t imagine that.

Worse still, on top of the betrayal, he was nervous.

It the last month—that it had only been a month was hard to fathom—she had worked with him fairly often. When he wasn’t in the main halls of Sinfall, he was in his office, making notes on different points that they could handle, different tasks they could do that would allow them to get better footholds without causing the sire to gauge them enough of a threat to retaliate, yet.

On one of the first nights she’d visited him in his quarters, he had been honest with her and told her they were in a game of cat and mouse. Denathrius would be watching their every move, waiting. The Master was confident that they couldn’t win, and so he was content to let them fight in vain, to tire themselves out, to expend their resources, to watch them suffer.

Liila had said that they ought to harvest the master’s pride, that it would end the drought.

Prince Renathal had laughed then, a bitter sound. He’d told her to be careful, that much of the sire’s pride was well placed. He was a god, after all.

Liila hadn’t pointed out that she’d killed gods before, that it was almost always this very pride that made them susceptible.

Because they were beings that were incapable of understanding that things could turn against them until they found themselves facing their actual end. By then it was always too late.

Never-the-less, she had found him seeking her out in the coming days. It surprised her because he could have just as easily sent stone fiends with half the messages he brought to her in person. He did that with most of the people he sent out, really, but it was the fact that he was so willing to be involved that drew her attention to him.

She’d fought alongside other leaders, and yet something about the dark prince was different.

She couldn’t place it, so she lied to herself and told herself that it was that dedicated involvement. As though Talanji had stood back when her people faced dangers or Tyrande hadn’t been willing to defend Val’sharah herself.

The reality of it, though, was that she _liked_ him.

What were those attributes she’d mused over in her dream? Charm and dedication and—

And she didn’t need to be thinking about that dream, anyway, because her mind would inevitably go to the end of it.

And she really didn’t want her mind wandering in that direction right now. Especially in front of the Harvester of Desire.

As the others showed up, Liila hung back, near one of the stoneborn, so as not to make an impression that she was somehow more important than she was. The Tithelord paid her the most attention, scowl in place as he glowered. The Stonewright ignored her completely, and the Countess merely gave her a curious onceover.

Once the meeting began in earnest, however, it was as though she didn’t exist, and she was very much pleased with that.

Prince Renathal was eloquent and refined, and she found herself admiring him from afar. Perhaps it was partially because she knew how much he cared about his cause and his realm, but he was _so_ sincere, so open about what needed to be done.

And it wasn’t enough.

One by one, each of the Harvesters he needed to persuade turned away and left him standing there, defeated. She saw his expression falter for a moment, saw the wounds of his Master’s betrayal reopened with what he no doubt perceived as his latest failure.

She wanted to tell him that she had been encouraged by his words to fight harder, and yet, what good would that do? She wasn’t one of the ones who needed persuading.

When she approached, he gave her a weak smile and told her he hadn’t expected to win them all over at once. His posture, his tone, all of it…it broke her heart.

Over the next couple weeks, Sinfall felt muted. Prince Renathal and the others sent Liila out with missions to fend off enemies or to represent them in other realms, but all the while, the Prince was quiet beyond the necessary conversation.

Even their first Ember Court didn’t do much to pull him out of his melancholy. He was cordial during the event, but as soon as it was over, he dismissed himself to ‘work’.

Liila followed as soon as she felt she could—Steffan had ordered her to stop helping with the clean up after about half an hour, declaring that she had done more than enough for the evening. One of the dredgers had taken her tray of dirty teacups from her and given her a wink and motioned for her to shoo.

Without even considering what to do with her newly freed time, she went to see Prince Renathal. She had hoped that the event would raise his spirits, but when she came to his door, she found it slightly ajar. While a Venthyr would have had to push it a little to see inside, she could peek in without moving the heavy wood.

Prince Renathal sat at his desk, his coat tossed haphazardly on the fainting couch, and head in his hands.

Stepping quietly back into the hall, Liila debated knocking. Would she be able to pretend she hadn’t seen what she had?

As she mulled it over, footsteps caught her attention, and she looked up to see General Draven approaching. He had a few scrolls in one hand. She winced a little, unsure if it was because she’d been caught. General Draven shifted his papers to his other hand and patted Liila’s head. His hand was heavy on her head, but she felt oddly reassured by it. He didn’t say anything to her. Instead, he announced himself as he pushed the door open and then closed it before the prince could see she was in the hall, too.

Deciding it wouldn’t do to stand around waiting in the hall when she had nothing to say—nothing important, anyway—she headed back to the main part of the fortress. She and the few other mortals who came and went shared one of the longer rooms on a lower level, and she decided that it would do her good to get some rest.

Running tea around and helping judge souls had been rather taxing, after all.

She’d have to talk to them about maintaining a minor role in the court, rather than serving as a host alongside Prince Renathal. She did _not_ have the people skills for that.

“Maw Walker!”

Theotar practically bounded down the hall, catching her arm and twirling around with her in tow so that they were heading toward the main hall. Liila was glad for his firm hand on hers, because otherwise she would have likely spun into the wall.

Before she could ask what was going on, Theotar was clucking his tongue. “My dear Maw Walker, you must take better care of yourself.” 

Peering up at him, she watched him try to maintain a frown for a moment longer before giving up and smiling as he finally slowed his pace so that she wasn't expending what little energy she had left just to keep up. He always chastised her when he caught her still up when she should have gone to sleep hours ago—or using her heals to keep herself going. She waved him off, but secretly liked that there was someone out there who fretted over her over-exertions. 

It had been far too long since anyone worried about her like that. 

As Theotar lauded their first court, he offered her a small list that he’d composed on what they could do better. No sooner had he held it out to her, he pulled it away. “We can go over this once you’ve had some time to rest.”

“He said as he led her away from her sleeping chambers,” Liila narrated, grinning when Theotar gave her a look of mock disapproval.

He couldn’t keep the expression for long. Soon, his giddiness was back, his smile brilliant, eyes sparkling, as he practically vibrated with excitement.

When they reached the table he usually hung around in the main hall, he released her. He started to say something, but stopped, caught Liila by the shoulders, and carefully turned her so that they were facing one another directly. Liila wasn’t sure what was going on, but she didn’t mind. It was hard to, when Theotar’s theatrics were always so…fun.

Gods, but it had been too long since she had _real_ fun.

Theotar straightened up and began a short speech. He was as eloquent as ever, but something about the way he spoke made her think that perhaps this had been rehearsed a time or two.

It took her a moment to realize he was asking to become her soulbind. 

For a second, she considered reminding him that a connection with her might not be quite the intertwined souls that he was thinking of, that her binding with Nadjia was supposedly a muted thing, but his enthusiasm was such that she couldn’t ruin the mood.

As she let him tug her over to the soulbinding altar, a stark realization hit her and almost made her steps waver.

How odd that she felt happier and more invested and _alive_ in the realm of the dead than she did in her own world.


End file.
